


love's not a competition (but i'm winning)

by LittleLostStar, spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Burlesque Club, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Five Years Older, F/F, Humor, M/M, Rivalry, Romantic Comedy, literal glitter bombs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: "Through blood, sweat, tears, and plenty of liquid eyeliner, Victor has established his burlesque troupe as one of the city’s must-see alternative entertainment acts, branded himself as a must-follow online personality with tens of thousands of Instagram followers and a recently acquired blue verification checkmark on Twitter, and has even gotten the mayor’s personal number. For strictly professional occasions.(Victor can neither confirm nor deny the rumors about the Mayor’s 69th birthday party cake, nor the dancer who may or may not have been inside, but he’s never looked at white buttercream the same way since)."_______Victor Nikiforov is the leader of the best burlesque revue in the city, and well on his way to achieving his dream goal of a Upper-Level Lesser Kardashian-tier stardom, complete with his own reality TV show. So when rival burlesque dancer Yuuri Katsuki scoops Victor's theme night and refuses to back down (or fire those hips that will not quit), it doesn't take long before war is declared—a tense and glittery battle featuring anarchic stagehands, orange light gels, fake eyelashes...and some occasional hate-sex that may not be hate-sex at all.





	1. all i ever wanted was the world

**Author's Note:**

> We're so excited to FINALLY post this beautiful, ridiculous creation that's been a labor of love for both of us. 
> 
> we're not sure what the update schedule will be like, because both of us have WIPs, but rest assured that updates will happen because this is important to both of us. Also, writing this made us cry with laughter. 
> 
> **Everyone in this fic has been aged up five years.** We cannot stress that enough.
> 
> fic title from the Kaiser Chiefs' "Love's Not A Competition (But I'm Winning)"
> 
> chapter title from "Primadonna" by Marina and the Diamonds.

Victor Nikiforov will tell anyone who asks (and many more who don't): It's not easy being the reality-show-worthy leader of what is _inarguably_ the best burlesque revue in the city. It’s a lot of work, in fact, with late nights and martini hangovers, last-minute costume repairs and broken dance heels—not to mention the not-insignificant process of accepting that you will never, ever be truly free of glitter.

Glitter is like sand; you’ll find it in places where no glitter has gone before  and should never go again. When Victor had to tent his house last year, he spent an hour arguing with the exterminator that glitter is more insidious than termites. That doesn’t stop him from ordering in bulk on a subscription basis.

It’s a classic _Beauty and the Beast_ story: boy meets glitter, boy is trapped by glitter, glitter gives boy a library, and they live happily ever after with only the slightest hint of nascent Stockholm Syndrome if you squint your eyes and are exceptionally pissy about it.

The glitter is only one part of the story, though. And Victor _loves_ to tell his story.

It starts the same every time. Victor sits on the red velvet ottoman he's Lysol-ed and re-upholstered into submission, making love to his reflection in the vintage make-up vanity he'd purchased the first month the club had managed to break even. He wears the lightest robe he can, since he's not allowed to walk about _his own club_ naked anymore after the Flamingo Incident. He conducts an imaginary interview—a feature for GQ, perhaps, or _Vanity Fair._

In his mind, the interviewer is always a redhead in a yellow jumpsuit like April O’Neil from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. On the days he's able to admit to himself there are years past forty, Victor even imagines a spread (emphasis on the spread) in _Better Homes and Gardens_ , where he wafts around a beautiful country house in entirely weather inappropriate sheer silks. The house has new, fully comped furniture brought in just for the shoot, and there's a blurry fill-in-the-blank man fixing Victor a drink after a hard day at work, Makkachin nipping at said rent-a-husband's heels.

But right now he's only twenty-seven (for the fifth time), and has a mighty need to put the Gentle, the Man, and the Quarter back into _Gentlemen's Quarterly,_ so April O'Not-Infringing-On-Copyright pops back into Victor's head as he reaches for some first-coat foundation..

 _Why burlesque?_ she asks.

Victor smiles proudly. "Burlesque has a long and proud history of making an art out of taking one’s clothes off in an exceptionally fabulous manner. Burlesque is about beauty," he replies (though not out loud. He learned that the hard way). "Beauty of the human form, and of the way clothing conceals and reveals who we are. And in my club, we appreciate the ways beauty can be unique, and how it can challenge our preconceived notions about societal roles."

Through blood, sweat, tears, and plenty of liquid eyeliner, Victor has established his burlesque troupe as one of the city’s must-see alternative entertainment acts, branded himself as a must-follow online personality with tens of thousands of Instagram followers and a recently acquired blue verification checkmark on Twitter, and has even gotten the mayor’s personal number. For strictly professional occasions.

(Victor can neither confirm nor deny the rumors about the Mayor’s 69th birthday party cake, nor the dancer who may or may not have been inside, but he’s never looked at white buttercream the same way since).

The club, his pride and joy, was once the very last porno theater in the city. After outlasting everything—its competitors, the Reagan administration, a wave of prudish 90's suburban moms with anti-obscenity petitions, Blockbuster Video—it had closed to little fanfare after several years of flaccid ticket sales; Victor bought the property for cheap and renovated it top to bottom, starting with a generous application of bleach to every single surface.

Every. Single. Surface. Even the ceiling. _Especially_ the ceiling.

But it was all worth it, because The Cock and Ballroom Cabaret is now one of the best venues around, albeit one with a strict ban on black lights. The space is now home to Victor and his merry band of gender-flippant exhibitionists, and they put on a regular show attended by a clientele that is equal parts sex-positive hipsters and early-middle-aged city council members. Yes, the CaB offers something for everybody, and Victor knows it. His troupe is full of some remarkably talented dancers, and his support team is just as amazing. They're the one, the only, the fantabulous Cock and Ballers.

("It's tongue in cheek" Victor winks, "though what kind of cheek the tongue is in, that's up to you.")

In all seriousness, troupe puts all others to shame. Victor's heard customers call their club “El Dorado,” and not just for the glittery walls. Enter once, and you'll never be able to watch Christina Aguilera vanity movies again; the Cock and Ballers will transform everything you think you know about the art of professional disrobing. They're already a regional treasure, but Victor knows they can be something more. Certainly _he_ can be something more. He turns back to the imaginary interviewer.

 _Where do you see yourself in five years?_ she asks, right on cue.

"I aspire to a level of fame akin to an Upper-Level Lesser Kardashian,” Victor replies, as he casually contours his cheekbones. “Where the show isn’t named after you, but you can still get Instagram sponsorships for fake music festivals and make outrageously tone deaf Pepsi ads."

 _So we'll be seeing that famous silver coif on the small screen one of these days?_ In Victor's fantasies, the interviewer can be as witty as his heart desires. And they'll never call his hair grey.

He smiles coquettishly. "I'm sure all of your viewers will have a piece of Victory Belle right in their living rooms soon enough."

_Is this an announcement?_

Victor flashes April O'No-Really-The-Resemblance-Is-Just-Coincidence-Please-Don't-Sue-Me a wink: "I'll let the speculation speak for itself."

First rule of burlesque: always leave the audience wanting more.

With his base make-up applied with practiced precision, Victor slides on a silk robe. He no longer smokes, but he's come to enjoy a quick brisk walk around the block before he starts the real preparation before a show.

Outside of Victor's dressing room, chaotic normal rages on. A boa flies past his head as he makes his way down the hall; he walks past Chris's closed door, pre-show Edith Piaf soundtrack spilling out from beneath the door to drench him in temporary ennui. A thudding bass reverberates faintly from the direction of the main stage; Otabek, the club DJ, is adjusting the levels using one of his trademark R&B jams, and as Victor walks out onto the empty stage he swears he can hear the singer crooning _"tell him you'll drive stick, but only if he don't make it too quick."_ Otabek flashes him a thumbs up, which in context is the emotional equivalent of a wedding flash mob, and Victor continues to the bar, where Georgi's washing the glasses. Again.

"Gosha, did you get tears on the dishware? We've talked about this. I don't want to fiddle with the soap budget for the third time this fiscal quarter."

Georgi purses his lips. "No comment." His lower lip quivers a little, pushing through his cool facade. Not for the first time, Victor muses that if the rest of Georgi's body moved as well as his lips did in pre-cry mode, he might have his own act at The CaB.

"Why would I need verbal confirmation when your actions say it all?"

"You don't know anything," Georgi starts to protest, but Victor smiles with all the wisdom he's acquired in his thirtymumble years on this earth.

"Ah, Gosha, but that's where you're wrong. If anyone is Jon Snow here it's you."

Georgi visibly recoils. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Isn't that the line? 'You don't know anything, Jon Snow'? From the Game of Thrones?"

Georgi glowers. "You know nothing."

"Exc _use_ me?"

"That's the line. 'You know nothing, Jon Snow.'"

Victor shrugs extravagantly. "Six of one tomato, half a dozen of the other tomahtoes, really."

"Do you listen to the things that come out of your mouth?"

"No, usually they're coming in my mouth, and at that point we're well past the small talk phase." Victor has practiced thirteen individual types of winks, and this one deserves his Five-Time Award-Winning Mama's Secret Family Recipe Blue Ribbon Showstopper.

"Leave it to you to nail innuendo but totally flub an idiom," Georgi grumbles.

"I've nailed many things in my illustrious career."

"Please just go on your walk." Georgi's voice is laced with just the barest pleading tone. Victor grins.

"Yessir," he says with a military salute; he likes to think it'll help Georgi discover a new kink. Lord knows the man needs one.

Victor saunters away, a calculated sway to his hips, through the front doors into the theater foyer.

"Hey asshole," comes a sullen voice from the ticket booth. "That new shade of concealer makes you look your real age. Y'know, forty."

Victor turns to see Yuri Plisetsky, the CaB’s ticket agent, reclining in his ancient swivel chair with his feet kicked up on the booth. He's reading a tattered paperback called _The Mermaids of Interstellar Uranus._

"A delight as always, Yuri." Victor's doing his best to calm the twitch by his right eye—it will cause wrinkles. There are only so many orange gels you can put on stage lights.

"You fucking bet I am."

"How are the mermaids today?"

"Plot is contrived, minimal characterization. Too much porn. So about what I expected."

"You should start a Tumblr."

Yuri's eyes narrow. "Who told you about Tumblr?"

"I'm verified on Twitter."

"I know," Yuri rolls his eyes. "We all know. You sent out blue cupcakes with check marks on them."

Victor bristles. "Verification is one step closer to celebrity status!"

Yuri turns back to his book, and Victor pretends it was his idea to leave all along.

"You know, maybe if you worried a little less about your virtual presence, and more about your real one, you'd have people to call friends instead of co-workers...or employees," Yuri tosses at Victor's back.

Victor notes the wind is especially loud today. Unusual for May.

He starts on his usual route: two blocks west towards the park, three blocks right along the green (but not close enough that he'll get dirt in his stockings) and then back up the parallel five blocks to the CaB.

Victor forces his attention back to his latest endeavor—the thing that he's sure will bring the reality TV producers and internet celebrity gossip magazines to his door. Something that will really thrust the CaB into the international spotlight. Victor’s soon-to-be-announced theme night, the thing that will put him on the map for sure: _Bandeaus Don’t Fix Bullet Holes: A Burlesque Tribute to Taylor Swift._

 _What made you pick Taylor Swift, Victor?_ Imaginary April O'Don't-Even-Worry-About-It asks.

“She’s an _icon_ ,” he coos. “We aim to celebrate her excellent songwriting while deconstructing the problematic elements in her brand of feminism, which—”

Victor stops dead in the street, right in front of a flyer-covered telephone pole, and feels his jaw drop open as he sees the newest poster that's been stapled on top of ads for a Mumford and Sons cover band and a notice seeking volunteers for a University study on Male Pattern Baldness.

What. The. _Fuck_.

He tears the offending flyer off the pole, sprinting back to the CaB so fast he rips runs in both legs of his stockings while collecting every poster he sees along the way.

 ____________________

“This is _bullshit_ ,” Victor spits, slamming down a stack of about two dozen posters he’s stolen from every telephone pole in the immediate vicinity. “Absolute bullshit.”

Chris, lounging around in one of his purposefully-too-small-I’ll-flout-whatever-public-decency-laws-I-can silk robes, picks up one of the posters. “Yuuri Katsuki’s Far From Standard Poodle Burlesque Revue presents: ‘Love’s a Game, Wanna Play? A Burlesque Tribute to Taylor Sw’—oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ This wannabe _Showgirls_ motherfucker is scooping our theme, Chris.”

Chris’ face lights up with impish glee. “Would you say there’s some bad blood here, Victor?”

“Yeah you’re goddamn right there’s bad bl—” Victor stops short and scowls. “Oh fuck you.” He snatches the poster from Chris’ hand, balls it up with the rest of them, and throws the wad into the tiny trashcan in the corner of the dressing room, sending up a poof of makeup powder as it lands.

“Careful, Victor!” Chris giggles, “you’re not out of the woods yet!”

Victor whirls around. “I will fire you,” he growls, stabbing a finger at Chris’ chest.

Chris’ hand closes around Victor’s and he raises it to gently kiss the knuckle. “Sure you will,” he murmurs. “That’s totally something you’ll do, Boss. I’m positively quaking in my—” he looks down. “—Manolo Blahnik knockoffs.”

“Do you really not know which pair of shoes you’re currently wearing?”

Chris purses his lips. “You don’t know my life.”

“I can still question your choices.”

“But we can’t question yours?”

“We have a show to do in thirty minutes,” Victor dodges.

“Victor.”

“Chris.”

“Yes, I know my own name, thank you.”

“Why are you like this?” Victor whines.

“Because you need me. I’m the only one who keeps you relatively sane—and I do mean relatively.”

Victor bristles. “That’s not true at all.”

Chris bats his outrageously long lashes—enhanced by custom falsies with little bouncy shiny penises on the ends. Chris has ordered them so often that the company named the design after him.  “Oh, Victor. Darling. Therapy is a hundred bucks an hour; you pay me less than that _and_ I get almost naked on a regular basis.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “You’d get fully naked for free. And, by the way, please don’t let your dancer’s belt, uh, _‘slip_ ’ again.”

“Excuse me, I am a _professional,_ how dare you sully my good name,” Chris mock-wails, beating his chest with his fist. “Also, _wardrobe malfunctions get the word out, Victor._ ”

“Chris, it’s literally against the law, please don’t show your junk,” Victor says, internally sighing at the realization that he’s actually lecturing people about keeping their clothes _on_. “Also I don’t think there’s a part of you that’s left unsullied.”

“I’ve offered to let you investigate, but you still haven’t taken me up on it,” Chris pouts, his tone only a stiletto’s width from serious.

“You’re in a long term relationship.”

“We have hall passes!”

Victor heaves a slightly-more-dramatic-than-strictly-necessary sigh and whirls around (god, that would look better with a cape, he notes), leaving Chris to his final preparations. As he stalks down the hallway, he passes by the huge poster of a previous show entitled _Ghostbusters Ruined My Childhood Too_ featuring Victor dressed as Jillian Holtzmann, complete with overalls and lab coat, crouched low against a wall with his knees splayed open and provocatively licking a prop gun.

Victor does at least one show out of spite every year. _Ghostbusters_ got picketed by exactly seven angry white boys, but only five of them had the decency to show up in fedoras. _Next year I’ll get a full slate of trench coats and red pill neckbeards,_ he vows. _And I will show them the good word of our Lord and Saviour, defiant semi-nudity._

(Victor only pretends to be Messianic sometimes. A man can only get so erect.)

He stops two doors down, where Mila and Sara’s dressing room door is ajar, spilling warm golden light out into the hallway. The girls’ dressing room always feels like the inside of a classy hipster’s pocket watch; everything is a strange combination of past and future, but so perfectly melded that it just feels normal, as if the reality of Fritz Lang’s _Metropolis_ slightly overlapped with their own.

“Vitya, tell her she’s wrong,” Mila calls theatrically.

Her girlfriend pouts. “I am not! Victor, you’re on my side right?”

Victor glances between them, amused, “I’m on both of your sides until I get the specifics.”

“You traitor,” Mila sniffs, “is this how you treat your family?”

“Every day,” Victor nods, deathly serious.

Sara and Mila share a glance before Mila huffs. “God, you’re useless.”

“I’m flattered. Now that I’ve ascended to the level of deity, I’ll have new business cards made.”

“Make sure they also say _asshole_ on them.”

Victor winks. “Oh, they will. I wouldn’t leave out one of my top twenty features. I don’t bleach for nothing.”

Sara grimaces, then makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Leave,” she proclaims, with the gravitas of every second of her Juilliard training.

“Your wish is my command,” Victor responds, with the gravitas of every second of his _Mime in a Minute! Learn Your Craft_ VHS tape training. “What were you two even arguing about anyway?”

Mila sighs. “Sara keeps insisting that ice cream smashed between two waffles is actually a sandwich because,” Mila pauses, folds her arms in front of chest and cocks her left hip in an imitation of her girlfriend, “‘I can’t ignore the structural similarities, Milochka! You’re too close-minded about food categories! I’m disappointed in your imagination.’ She’s so _mean_ , Victor.”

Victor cocks his head to one side. “I mean, yeah, it is a sandwich. Ice cream between two cookies is a sandwich. The conceptual leap from cookie to waffle isn’t difficult.” He ducks out of the way just in time to avoid being hit with a bright pink dildo. “You should really think about using those for your next interactive installation, since you’ve got so many of them!” he calls over his shoulder as he flees. “Found art is very chic!”  

“That’s illegal!” Sara calls after him, as if he doesn’t already know. The dildos make amazing props (for external use _only_ ), most recently in a highly memorable reenactment of the sword fight in _The Princess Bride_.

Under his breath, he growls, “Hello, my name is Winner McWinnerson, you stole my burlesque show idea, prepare to die!” Victor’s got his inevitable confrontation with Yuuri Katsuki, whoever he is, planned already.

(Maybe he should bring a dildo to the duel? No, that’s crazy. But now he’s mentally cataloguing his not-insignificant collection of dildos—they’re a business expense at this point—in search of his most dramatic options. Anything without glitter is unacceptable. Unfortunately that only narrows down his choices by ten percent.)

He swishes by the chorus dancers’ dressing room, leaning in for just a second to give them an outrageous wink, before sashaying into his own room and closing the door behind him.

Victor examines his face in the mirror—right side first, then left. He’s tried to pick a “best side” for years, but he can’t help it if they’re equally beauti— _oh my god are those crows feet?_ He’s going to need more glitter for this.

Victor spends the next twenty minutes gingerly fixing his face, the familiar motions like a whispered lullaby.

By the time the show starts, he’s ready to bring it.

 ____________________ 

"Ladies, gentlemen, and those who have yet to make up their mind, _welcome_ to the Cock and Ballroom Cabaret on this lovely evening," Victor announces into the microphone, lips caressing each word as if attempting to seduce the English Language itself. "I am Victory Belle, and I am the master of this domain. Find a seat, ask permission, assume nothing, and tip your bartender; we have an utterly demented and delightful show plotted for you tonight."

The newbies in the crowd applaud, and the Cock and Ballroom's regulars coo back the club's signature response in unison: “Venimus, vidimus, rursus venimus! We came, we saw, we came again!” Victor conducts them like an orchestra maestro, if such dignified gentlemen wore thigh-high, six-inch white platform boots and short shorts under their tailcoats.

(And maybe some do; Victor's not one to judge.)

(Then again, he'd argue the world would be a much better place if more gentlemen wore thigh-high, six-inch white platform boots. He'd be glad to give them his supplier's number.)

They're still looking for a full-time MC, so Victor has taken up the mantle of announcing the acts for the shows. It means that he can’t get a proper drumroll-please announcement of his finale routine, since a true diva never does their own introductions—but really, Victor needs none. He clears his throat.

"Our first performer may "Give Love a Bad Name," but let's be real, there's no such thing as a tepid love affair. And if by some chance you disagree, well, the door's over there. Unless you'd prefer the back door, in which case, find me after the show," Victor purrs, throwing the audience a wink. For a split second he loses himself in a fantasy not entirely unrelated to things he may or may not have just said and _maybe_ completely forgets why he's onstage, only to snap back to reality with another showstopping smile. "Presenting, for your pleasure, our very own Sappho!"

The lights come up on Sara, who's wearing a dark purple suit—complete with tailcoat and top hat— that perfectly matches the colour of her eyes. Her hair is tucked up underneath the hat, and in the expertly composed shadows she looks like the most beautiful boy in the entire world. Her song—a jazzy cover of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name"—starts up, and she smoothly slides off her stool and begins her routine, which starts out as a Gene Kelly-esque tap number and very quickly segues into Sara's special type of gender reveal burlesque.

Victor always loves watching the moment when she finally removes her top hat, revealing her nearly waist-length sleek black hair, to the delighted gasps of the audience members. With Sara, burlesque is a two-for-one: first from genteel boy to lacy lingerie goddess, and then eventually down to pasties that are shaped like little top hats. Sara doesn't always open every show, but when she does immediately enraptures the crowd—tonight is no different,she finishes her routine to enthusiastic applause and whistles.

"Like poetry in motion," Victor says, walking back onto his corner of the stage as he feigns wiping a tear from his eye, "that's a hard act to follow, but if _anyone_ can get hard enough, it's the Ice Nut himself, Chris Giacometti!" Victor doesn't bother to explain Chris' nickname, a holdover from his days as a figure skater; it would take too long, but suffice to say that burlesque's open embrace of the sensual elements of performance are a far better fit for Chris' skill set. Besides, Victor's seen the fan art on tumblr. It's good advertising, and the kind of thing reality tv producers _love_.

Chris' routines are driven by the same outrageous boldness that compels him to perform under his given name instead of a pseudonym. He's by far one of the most entertaining performers at the CaB; while he doesn't have the biggest thematic range, stretching as it does from "teasingly sexual" to "holy 55-gallon tub of lube, Batman, is this legal to do onstage?", Chris embodies the burlesque attitude almost as well as Victor does.

Tonight, Chris is dressed in an uncannily perfect Joan Jett costume, complete with a shaggy black wig and ripped stockings, which is all well and good but for the fact that he’s dancing to “La La”, a song from Ashlee Simpson’s very first album (“she was that generation’s mainstream attempt at riot grrl chic in the post- _Spiceworld_ era, _Victor_ ”). He thrusts his way around the stage in giant platform combat boots, playing directly to the women and men who have rushed to the very front in order to get as up close as possible with Chris’ dangling participles, so to speak.

Victor watches closely, not just because he enjoys a good striptease as much as anyone, but also because if they have to have The Talk about legal and illegal stage etiquette again, Victor’s going to have to call up Johnson and Wang, Attorneys At Large, and ask if they have a frequent defendant punch card. But tonight goes off nice and smooth (you could even say slick), and Chris performs a death drop on the stage as he finishes, possibly in more ways than one.

"We might have to order someone to hose down the stage," Victor fans himself, to a ripple of laughter from the audience. As much as he really wants a full-time MC, he does enjoy offering the audience the most glamorous mirror of themselves imaginable—and in the end, Victor’s just turned MCing into just as much of an art as his routines. "But then, Sam Ois has never had trouble getting anyone to follow her orders. They're practically _jumping_ at the chance. So fasten your seatbelt, hold onto your drink, and pick your favorite type of restraint—it's Sam Ois!"

Unlike Chris and Sara, Mila doesn't appear onstage right away. Six of the chorus dancers stand in various positions, and the backdrop lights turn a bright golden orange, casting them in sharp silhouette. Victor isn't in the booth, but he knows that Otabek starts this song with a modicum of pride, since it's one of his own creations—a feminist, dominatrix-themed reworking of Jason Derulo's "Talk Dirty", recorded with a local rapper just for this purpose. Mila worked with Beka for weeks to create it, and it's become one of the club's most notorious routines; even though most burlesque clubs retire songs after a season, this one has stuck around for a good few years.

As the lyrics begin, Mila appears at the back of the stage, holding a riding crop high above her head, continuing to face away from the audience as the chorus members employ increasingly desperate measures to catch her attention. As the final supplicant falls at her feet, Mila finally turns around, using her riding crop to direct all six of them into a formation that allows her to weave in and out of the spaces between them, shedding a piece of clothing upon each peek-a-boo appearance. As a finale, she orders them into a pyramid formation, with two of the buff male dancers on their hands and knees as she stands on their backs, and she whips away her black PVC bra with a flourish, riding crop stretched out towards the audience.

Victor watches Mila perform for as long as he knows he can before ducking backstage to shed his MC outfit (thank god for tearaway _everything_ ) and put the final touches on his own costume. Tonight he's performing to one of his favourite songs, "How to be a Heartbreaker" by Marina and the Diamonds; the crew are currently arranging his set—a desk, a chalkboard, and six chairs arranged in a V formation, which the backup dancers straddle. Victor does the routine as a nebbish school teacher, in a jacket with elbow patches and tweed tearaway slacks. Just before he goes onstage Victor grabs the ruler he uses to spank the backup dancers during the performance; then he walks out, finds his mark onstage, and closes his eyes for a brief moment just before the lights explode to life.

This is what he lives for; this is his calling, his lifelong passion, his glitter-drenched path through the world. This is love.

 ____________________ 

The rush of pleasure that springs from a good performance and a standing ovation raises Victor’s spirits for a little while—long enough to schmooze with a few regulars, have two martinis, and flirt with a chorus dancer’s wife’s friend’s cousin visiting from Missouri, the Show-Me State (“And what,” Victor purrs, “can _you_ show me?”). But after the crowd has cleared and the overhead lights have been flicked back on, Victor goes back to his dressing room, catches a glimpse of the black pleather studded shorts and shirt set he just had delivered from his seamstress for his “Bad Blood” routine, and begins to _seethe_.

Fucking Yuuri Katsuki.

Victor opens his laptop and Googles the frankly ridiculous name of Yuuri’s club, pulling up a bare-bones website; it seems like he’s only been in business for a few months. But while the site lacks anything besides basic HTML, it isn’t completely useless: it has a schedule. And that schedule helpfully informs Victor that the Anything But Standard Poodle Cabaret will be performing its regular show tomorrow night.

Perfect.

Victor feels a Nomi-Malone-shortly-after-she’s-pushed-a-woman-down-a-flight-of-stairs wicked grin spread across his face. He knocks on the wall in front of him.

“What is it?” Chris’ voice calls through, only slightly muffled.

“Clear your evening tomorrow,” Victor answers. “We’re going to see a show.”

“Does this have anything to do with that Yuuri Katwhatever guy, by chance?”

Victor purses his lips. “No?”

He hears Chris sigh dramatically. “Oh, Victor.”

“Fine, yes. I’m a petty creature prone to wild fits of jealousy when my honor is besmirched. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Every day.”

“So will you come?”

“Also every day.”

Victor smirks. “Meet me here at eight tomorrow night. We’ll see how much this Yuuri Katsuki insults the fine art of burlesque."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some pertinent links:
> 
> +[april o'neil](https://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/tmnt/images/e/ec/4095127038_aebf5422de_o.png/revision/latest?cb=20131206002128)  
> from TMNT  
> +[jillian holtzmann](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/1MkJ03ya_8k/maxresdefault.jpg)  
> +[ fritz lang's metropolis](http://retromovieposter.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/1927-Metropolis-2.jpg)  
> +mila's stage name [Sam Ois](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samois) is a reference to a lesbian-feminist BDSM organization in the late 70's and early 80's  
> +thank you to a [thishsbeencary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/pseuds/thishasbeencary) for the latin translation of the Cock and Ballroom's motto!  
> 


	2. life is like a hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor pays a visit to the Anything But Standard Poodle Cabaret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both of us returned to school so writing time has been a bit scarce. sorry for the delay! 
> 
> songs for the routines have been hyperlinked in the chapter text :)
> 
> thanks to FullmetalChords for taking a look at this last minute!

The Anything But Standard Poodle Cabaret is slightly shabby, as clubs go, but if he were kidnapped and held at squirt gun point, Victor would begrudgingly admit that the bar is impressively well-stocked. He knows this because he sauntered up to the bartender, a sleek slightly older woman named Minako who has the practiced pout of someone who has made a career out of getting people drunk for money, and ordered “A Lonely Island Lost in the Middle of a Foggy Sea,” which he then received because, to Victor’s utter shock, it’s apparently a real drink. 

_ And it’s delicious _ , he silently wails, taking another sip and scrolling through the ingredient list on his phone.  _ I wonder how much it would cost to get the CaB a cold brew coffee on tap setup. _

(A lot. It’s a lot.)

Victor is actually a little grateful that Chris abandoned him, because when the two of them get together and drink, they tend to bring out the worst in each other when it comes to compulsive shopping habits. Victor shrugs to himself, taking another sip of his cocktail, his tastebuds lamenting the fact that he’ll never come back here again even though it’s the best alcohol he’s ever tasted. 

“Victor!” A hand thumps him on the back and Victor almost dies on his lonely island, choking on his drink in a hideously undignified fashion. 

“Emil?”

Emil Nekola, the CaB’s most-of-the-time assistant stagehand, beams as if his employer isn’t almost choking to death right before his eyes. “Hi, Victor! How’s it going? Are you here for the show?” 

Victor recovers, taking a deep cleansing full breath untainted by hard-to-find liqueurs (satisfying to sip, supremely unpleasant in the sinuses). “I suppose so,” he replies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I had the evening free since  _ Drag Race _ is still in re-runs.” 

Emil leans on the counter. “Ah! Yes. I’m still gagging that Sasha Velour won over Peppermint.” 

Victor’s hand twitches to throw his drink in Emil’s face, but his glass is empty. “How  _ dare _ you,” he hisses. “She’s a fucking  _ artist _ , Emil.”

Emil raises his hands in mock defense. “No arguments here!” he replies. “But come on. Peppermint’s the lip sync assassin!” 

Victor is coiled and ready to spring out his fifteen-point list (with  _ citations _ ) of reasons why his beloved bald queen should, in fact, win  _ Drag Race  _ every single year from now on, but if he’s learned anything from Chadwick, the red (but unfortunately not flaming) hot youth pastor of his childhood churchgoing days, it’s that if you nail a thesis of ninety-five complaints to the door of a church—and cabaret clubs are a religious institution to Victor—then you’re going to end up burned at the stake. And Victor likes his hair too much to deal with singe marks. Plus Yuri keeps telling him that he’s only got so much left. 

So instead he gestures to Minako for another Lonely Island and huffs. “Anyway. Have you been here before?”

Emil’s eyes twinkle as he grins. “Once or twice.” 

Victor makes a point of looking around the room. “Kind of shabby, don’t you think?”

A shrug. “They’re just starting out! They’ve got some super inventive acts, a little outside the mainstream, y’know?”

Victor smirks. “I mean,  _ yeah _ . That’s what I do for a living, Emil. That’s what we all do.” 

Emil shakes his head. “No, I mean  _ really _ original, Vic. This troupe has some real surprises.” The lights dim and then brighten, a signal for the audience to start moving towards the stage, and Emil claps Victor on the back again, gentler this time. “Well, that’s my cue! Gotta head backstage.” 

This time, Victor chokes of his own accord. “What?!” 

“Oh, I’m stage manager here!” It shouldn’t be possible to smile that charmingly while stabbing Victor in the back. 

“But—but…” Victor’s eyes light up as he remembers something. “But you signed a contract!” He puffs out his chest, vindicated that all those hours spent in a glitterless lawyer’s office negotiating work contracts have paid off.  _ Good idea, Past Victor. Thanks, me, I know. _

But while Victor expects Emil to instantaneously crumple into a ball of deference and defeat, Emil merely smiles. “None of the crew is exclusive, Victor darling.”

_ Fuck you, Past Victor, for insisting on no exclusivity as a universal rule. _

Emil continues, rudely oblivious to Victor’s internal monologue, “Wasn’t it you yourself who said that burlesque is a free-spirited industry? We must fight to shed the shackles of capitalist dogma and embrace the collective in every possible way.” 

Victor’s never wanted to punch a communist before, but suddenly the propaganda of his adopted US of A surges through him. As soon as he gets home, Victor’s going to pour over that fine print with his hot pink magnifying glass. “Are you  _ serious— _ ”

Emil’s already walking away. “We’ll catch up later! You can tell me what you think!” 

Victor drains the rest of his drink and signals the bartender to bring him another. A fucking lonely island indeed. They should call this club Brutus’ Burlesque And Backstabbing Inc. (At least that would be a better name.)

As the lights dim all the way to darkness, Victor tries to settle himself. Since he found those fliers, he’s felt off balance—like he’s back onstage for his “Maybe This Time” routine from _You Have to Understand the Way I Am, Mein Hair: A Wig-Based Tribute to Liza_ _Minelli_ , only one of his stilettos is shorter than the other. All the alcohol’s doing is sinking him into a sea of uncertainty. Still, he keeps drinking as a pair of spotlights squeak their way to the center of the stage. 

“Hello, friends!” a very familiar voice announces. 

Victor eyeballs his drink wondering if some absinthe got mixed in with the cold brew, because that sounds uncannily like—

“My name is Phichit Chulanont, and I am your Master of Ceremonies for this lovely evening!” 

Victor chokes. Phichit is  _ his  _ stage manager. What the fuck is he doing here?  _ What could I possibly have done in a previous life to justify this asshole Yuuri stealing everything from me?  _ It’s not like Victor’s done anything in  _ this  _ life that could warrant this kind of treachery. Aside from getting a candy bar with a five-finger discount and fingering five guys from the rowing team in one night during college, Victor’s lived like a saint. 

(There is no rule that says saints can’t own extensive dildo collections.)

Onstage, Phichit continues, unfazed by the gravity of his betrayal. “Welcome to the Anything But Standard Poodle Cabaret. I’m so pleased to see you all here tonight. Can I get a show of hands of how many of you have never been here before?” About half of the audience raises their hands, and Victor raises his eyebrows as Phichit beams. “That’s so fantastic! We’re pretty new still, and it’s really encouraging to have a full house with so many new faces. I hope you enjoy the show! Please feel free to tip your waiter or waitress. Monetary tips are  _ highly _ appreciated, but if you know how to cut a spaghetti squash without injuring yourself, that’s a great tip too.” The audience laughs. Phichit giggles with them but continues, “no, seriously. Those things are like a Trojan Horse. They promise so much, but ultimately, they’re full of pain.”  

Victor smirks into his drink. This place is so basic that Phichit is asking for fucking cooking tips. But then, this place doesn’t even have a  _ catch phrase _ . No wonder they’ve tried to steal Victor’s whole life.

“For our first routine, I’m very pleased to introduce a young but truly talented master of comedic burlesque. He grew up in Los Angeles, stalking celebrities and ordering every single drink off of the secret menu at Starbucks. After a brief flirtation with a music and theater degree, he discovered his passion and has been performing in queer theater all over the country ever since. We’re so proud to call him a principal member of the Poodle. Please give a big hand to Bae’s Clef!” 

Bae appears onstage, lit by a harsh overhead spotlight (no orange gels, Victor notes. Tragic.). [An incredibly familiar tune begins to play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMU2NwaaXEA). 

_ No fucking way. _

Victor knows this song. Chris played this song for a week straight when Victor wouldn’t let him do a routine to “The Bad Touch,” because Chris is surprisingly adept at mental warfare. And now Victor hates this song with the heat of a million fire crotches. 

_ “Life is like a hurricane / Here in Duckburg…” _

Bae’s Clef is adorable. That’s really the only way to put it. He’s Latino, with shaggy brown hair and incredibly well-plucked eyebrows. Victor briefly wonders if he can get the name of his waxer after the show, but then remembers that this is an agent of his mortal enemy. The next thing Victor notices is that Bae’s Clef is not wearing pants, which is an unusual choice for a profession based around a slow reveal of one’s undergarments. There’s a joke Victor could make about premature ejaculation, but he can’t quite put his finger on it, and it’s hard to focus on witty rejoinders when he’s watching a man start to prance around onstage to the fucking  _ Ducktales _ theme, wearing no pants, a suit jacket, a top hat, and a monocle— _ oh. _

Okay. That’s kind of clever. It’s ridiculous, but it’s clever. Victor can appreciate absurdist comedy when he sees it. Emil really wasn’t kidding about the acts here being surprising.

Bae’s routine is short but well-received; he did eventually strip off the rest of his ensemble, but not before throwing fistfulls of chocolate gold coins at the crowd, delighting in every single moment of frenzied Disney-befouling joy. As Bae takes a bow and the audience applauds and whistles, Victor sits back, blinking. He has no idea how the guy did it, but somehow he made sticking his butt out at the audience and wiggling it like a waterfowl impossibly sexy.  _ Is there a word for sexual attraction to a duck?  _ Victor pulls out his phone and opens his browser. Somewhere out in the wildernesses of the internet, someone’s posted this exact question on Yahoo Answers.  _ Huh. Anatophile. That’s a new one. _

“Thank you, Bae,” Phichit says, holding up one of the chocolate coins and taking a bite. “That’s quite a financial strategy you’ve got there; have you taken it to Wall Street at all? They could use it, those guys are totally scrooged.” He winks at the audience, and receives groans and laughing boos in response, to which he chuckles. “I know, I know, that was terrible. But we saunter onwards!” 

Victor pouts.  _ I thought that was a pretty good pun. I also thought Phichit liked my sense of humor. _

Tonight has been an endless string of betrayals. A pearl necklace of pain. 

“Our next performer is also one of the owners of our humble theater, and once you see her you will never believe that she only began doing burlesque five years ago. Believe me when I say that this is one of my favourite burlesque routines of all time—and I see a  _ lot _ ,” Phichit grins, prompting warm chuckles from the crowd and making Victor see nothing but red for a full two point seven seconds. “[Dancing to ‘Woman’ by Kesha, it’s Girl Friday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M20f1eqNrl4)!” 

The lights come back up on a tiny woman with auburn hair, dressed in the most hideous costume Victor’s ever seen (and he once watched Chris do an erotic tribute to  _ The Emoji Movie _ ). She’s got pastel blue mom jeans which nearly reach her breasts, a frumpy Harvest Yellow blouse covered in splotches of various colors, yellow dish gloves and an apron that says “Nine Months Ago I Read 50 Shades of Gray.” As Kesha sings  _ “I buy my own things / I pay my own bills…” _ , Girl Friday putters around an old-fashioned girls’ kitchen toy set, the kind that five-year-old Victor used to dream about getting for Christmas (though not as much as he used to yearn for his very own Pink Cadillac Barbie Dream Car. He purchased the latter the day after the CaB broke even). 

Girl Friday spends the song’s first verse setting up her character as a harried housewife; then, as the chorus kicks in, she begins to disrobe; first her gloves, then the apron, then the blouse, and finally the mom jeans, ripped away with a flourish to reveal an impressively outdated frumpy bra-and-panty set, which elicits a chuckle from Victor before he remembers he is contractually obligated to hate everyone in this bar.  _ Non-exclusively _ . Girl Friday finishes her set by removing her undergarments in a more traditionally burlesque fashion, revealing a glittery thong and matching pasties, to the joyful hollers of the crowd. Victor very nearly joins in with them, but instead he clamps his mouth shut and turns back to the bar to find Minako standing right in front of him, one eyebrow raised high. 

“What did you think?” she asks, and Victor gets the impression that this is Final Jeopardy and whether or not he gets the answer right will determine if he’s barred from the club. 

He takes a casual sip of his drink. “She was good,” he replies. “Interesting setup.”

Judging by Minako’s face, that probably wasn’t the precisely correct answer, but it also wasn’t entirely wrong, because she plunks another drink down in front of him. “Girl Friday started doing burlesque after having triplets,” she says, and Victor widens his eyes by the correct amount to convey that he’s impressed. 

“That’s so wonderful for her,” he replies, stunned at the sincerity in his voice, but the alcohol is starting to dull the edges of his anger and his inner love for burlesque is taking over, like a kid at Christmas only the mistletoe is firmly taped onto the front of a dancer’s belt. “And she’s a part owner of the club?”  _ Victor, you don’t care about these people.  _

Minako folds her arms. “Yes, her and her husband, and myself,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Burlesque can be a family business.”

Victor puts up his hands in mock defeat. “No argument from me.”

Minako nods towards Victor’s right hand, and  _ how is his glass empty again _ ? “Another?” 

He nods, turning back to the stage, where Phichit has appeared again. 

“Now it’s time for something a little bit different,” Phichit says, as a stagehand ( _ holy fucking shit that’s Minami how is my entire fucking crew working at this place? _ ) walks onstage, holding two long pieces of silk which Victor can see are connected to a beam at the ceiling. “Jean-Jacques Leroy began his life as a Canadian Tire model in Canada, and his hit song ‘Theme of King JJ’ rocketed up the charts as part of the very last  _ Big Shiny Tunes _ album. He had a brief but pivotal role as Chad Roi on  _ Degrassi: the Next Generation _ , and has pursued a life of athleticism and artistry ever since. He has been doing aerial performances for several years and is in the middle of choreographing an aerial duet for himself and his fiancee, which we expect to debut next year. For now, though, he’s thrilled to present a routine that won him a gold medal at the North American Aerial Championships. Everyone give it up for JJ Leroy!” 

JJ struts onstage, wearing nothing but a pair of red lamé booty shorts and a matching bowtie. He bows to the audience before turning around to grab the silks, and Victor stops mid-lower-lip-bite because while he can appreciate a man who’s in such good shape, he cannot appreciate anyone who has a lower back tattoo of—their own initials? He’s too far from the stage to be sure but it feeds into the narrative of this club just being the absolute fucking worst. 

[JJ’s music begins](https://soundcloud.com/user-985807580/theme-of-king-jj); it’s a New Age tune, with a female singer warbling  _ “Now I rule the world, and the starry sky spreading above… _ ” JJ hoists himself up onto the silks and begins an admittedly impressive routine, full of acrobatic flips and falls, and the audience eats it up like a particularly juicy peach. Which is all well and good, only this is a burlesque club, and there is no burlesque happening onstage.  _ Yuuri Katwhatever zero, Victor Nikiforov one, _ Victor thinks, sitting up a little straighter. If he had feathers he’d be preening them by now. 

JJ finishes his routine with a massive spinning fall, stopping just short of the floor, and Victor automatically joins in with the applause before snapping his hands into tight fists by his side.  _ No, Victor. Bad Victor. Drunk Victor. _

Phichit saunters back onstage, mic in hand, beaming proudly. 

“We’ve got two more acts for you tonight. Up next I am overwhelmingly pleased to announce a new addition to the Anything But Standard Poodle Cabaret. Fresh off a stint in Brooklyn, and bringing her stunningly gorgeous drag style to you every weekend, it’s Alma Vivo!” 

A bare spotlight illuminates a figure dressed in a sharply tailored tuxedo with a matching top hat, a slim silver cigarette holder clutched in her right hand. As the music begins, Alma Vivo raises her head as she removes her hat. Victor blinks; not only does she look uncannily like an Asian Marlene Dietrich, but she  _ also _ has amazing eyebrows. What the fuck.  _ Does this place have someone on staff?  _

Alma [does a lip sync to Marlene’s version of “Makin’ Whoopee,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DTx7ZW84a8E) and Victor can’t even be that pissed off that she isn’t doing burlesque either, because  _ Marlene _ . His idol, his girl, his beautiful lesbian pre-war goddess. Victor’s adored Marlene Dietrich ever since he found out that she maybe probably had a torrid affair with her fierce rival, Greta Garbo, back in the day. Victor’s always been a sucker for hate-to-love romance. 

As the song fades out, Alma Vivo places the top hat back on her head and slides the cigarette holder between her lips before sauntering off stage, leaving the audience completely silent for a moment before they burst into raucous applause. Victor included. Damnit. 

Phichit slides back into the spotlight and lets out a low whistle just as the applause dies down. “I know. I’m incredible.” The audience giggles, and a chorus of catcalls erupts from the back of the room, to which Phichit winks. “Thank you. I’d say you’re too kind but, really…” he trails off with a smirk, and the audience laughs again. “So far tonight you’ve seen some of my very favourite burlesque routines, but this next performer is, no lie, hands down the best dancer in the city. He is the cofounder of this club, and we are so proud to call him our leader; by day he goes by Yuuri Katsuki, but you may know him better as Eros—and if you don’t, then you’re about to. Please put your hands together for our grand finale performer: Eros!”

Victor sits up straight, shoulders thrown back, ready for a fight. His chair wobbles and he flails a little bit before recovering—with perfect grace, naturally. He narrows his eyes and rests his chin on his hand, scowling as viciously as he possibly can without giving himself wrinkles. 

_ Okay, you talentless hack, let’s see how you insult the fine art of burlesque. _

The lighting is as unimpressive as Yuuri’s going to be—it’s a single spotlight shining on a—is that a stripper pole? 

Victor recoils.  _ Really?  _

There’s a [screech of an electric guitar which segues](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QZNL0PCbdw) into a series of piano chords and a woman’s voice singing a mournful tune about how  _ I feel so much better today / now that you're mine, _ and Victor rolls his eyes. 

As the beat kicks in,  _ he _ finally appears onstage. Yuuri Katsuki moves like he’s more fluid than flesh, with the unconscious grace of a classically trained ballet dancer. He’s wearing an ankle-length skirt with a slit all the way up the side, cinched with a bejeweled clasp. The intricate beading of his costume twinkles in the light, and he stretches one arm out in a gracefully balletic curve before removing his opera-length satin glove, one finger at a time. It’s only after he’s dropped the glove onstage that Yuuri finally turns around to face the audience, and  _ son of a bitch, he’s cute. God damn it.  _ Victor wasn’t expecting Yuuri to be hideous, but does he have to be so handsome? Does his hair have to be slicked back so smoothly? Does his skin need to be so creamy and— _ NO. _

Victor clears his throat. Minako rolls her eyes, but plunks another drink down in front of him, and absently Victor wonders how big his bill is going to be by the time he’s done.  _ I’ve definitely paid this guy for the privilege of witnessing his failure. There’s my good deed for the quarter.  _

“On the house,” Minako smirks, “you looked thirsty.”

Victor should refuse this drink based on innuendo alone, but he’s made it a standing policy never to turn down free booze. He knocks it back, pretending it’s just the alcohol that’s burning and not his face.

Onstage, Yuuri has removed the other glove and is walking in a slow circle around the pole, every step a toe-heel marvel of dancerly precision.  _ “Automatic...I give up, give up, _ ” the song goes, and as the percussion kicks up for the chorus Yuuri leans around at what seems to be an impossible angle before wrapping his legs around the pole—a quick fireman spin, if Victor remembers his Pole 101—and springing away again. It’s slow, deliberate, almost plodding—and just as Victor’s finishing that thought, Yuuri leaps for the pole and climbs up it, the long slit in his costume’s skirt revealing his legs, and he holds himself in place using just his bare thighs, leaning back until he’s almost perfectly parallel with the floor. 

Victor blinks.  _ Holy god. He could crush a man to death with those thighs. _ He aggressively swallows the lump in his throat.  _ I mean, he probably does that just for fun, to poor innocent boys just out of the closet who don’t know any better. Because he’s evil. And the worst. Yes. _

He’s got this totally under control.

Still holding himself up on the pole, Yuuri runs his hands up and down his sides seductively, unzipping the corset he’s wearing and letting it fall away from his torso onto the floor. The song’s thudding beat has gone from plodding to panting as Victor swirls the last of the alcohol in his glass.  _ Why are all the evil ones always sculpted like marble? _

The gay god is a cruel mistress. 

_ “I’ll be the one to make your heart beat right / Walk you in circles, I'll speak your mind / I'll breathe your air to make you feel alive…” _

Yuuri lets his hands skitter up his leg until he reaches the side slit of the skirt, unclasping it in a sudden flash of red like a toreador’s cape, and whipping it away with a flourish that brings a round of applause from the crowd. He slides down the pole in one smooth motion and twirls away from it, now wearing nothing but a dancer’s belt, and Victor gets  _ one _ second to glimpse the size of that Fed-Ex package before the lights cut out completely, plunging the theater into darkness. 

The crowd goes wild. 

Victor sits back, the sound of applause fading in his ears until it becomes a dull roar. 

Well. It appears that Yuuri Katsuki did not, in fact, insult the fine art of burlesque. In reality, he’s wined and dined it, taken it home for dessert, and played it Marvin Gaye on vinyl before thoroughly taking it apart. Burlesque walks home the next morning with a pair of stilettos in one hand, a stained shirt in the other, and still-quivering knees from the best orgasm it’s ever had. 

(By complete cosmic coincidence, it’s been seven months, eighteen days, twenty-one hours and thirty-nine minutes since Victor Nikiforov last got laid.)

The glaring house lights come up, reminding Victor where he is. People filter out of the room in pairs, streaming towards the exit while Victor’s still too stunned to move. 

He turns back towards the bar, suddenly parched, only to find Minako standing square in front of him with her arms folded across her chest in the universal bartender signal for  _ hey. You. Go the fuck home. _

“Last call was twenty minutes ago,” she says, snatching Victor’s empty glass. 

And for once, Victor doesn’t have  _ just _ the right reply, so instead he says nothing and plunks some cash onto the bar. 

He recovers just enough to call an Uber.  The ride back is a daze, and Victor doesn’t realize until he’s standing in front of his building that he ended up giving his driver a fifty percent tip.  _ I’m so sorry, future riders of Chad H, for inadvertently rewarding a twenty-minute monologue about The Big Bang Theory.  _

When the world tilts a little as Victor staggers up the stairs to his apartment, he blames it on the alcohol. As soon as he opens the door, he’s greeted by the click of nails on tile and then the comforting press of paws against his chest and warm air by his cheek. 

“Makkachin,” Victor proclaims, “I’m...drunk.” 

Makka, fortunately, isn’t one to judge. 

(Un)fortunately, he’s not drunk enough that he forgets to look for his copies of the CaB’s contracts. It takes a good fifteen minutes of digging but he finds them buried beneath five pounds of glitter samples and enough double sided tape to last Chris two weeks. 

Squinting at the slightly swimming words, he sits down on the floor and pours over the terms. 

Son of a bitch. Emil was quoting it to him, word for word. 

Victor throws the papers away with a cathartically dramatic sigh.  _ Well. There that is. _

Tonight has been the  _ worst _ . Not only is he one drink more soused than he probably should be, which will make for a super fun hungover staff meeting tomorrow, but try as he might Victor can’t get the image of Yuuri’s routine out of his head. The guy barely looked at or acknowledged the audience; he came, he danced, he left. But he was  _ memorable _ . Captivating. Sparkling from every angle. Surprising. 

Victor looks across the room, where he can see himself reflected in the full-length mirror that hangs on the bathroom door, and for a split second has a terrifying inkling:  _ Yuuri might be better than me. _

He shakes his head. It must be the alcohol, because there’s no way a setup that basic could do  _ this _ to his brain.  _ Come on. This is your whole world. You just had too much to drink. _

That must be it. 

Victor raises his chin until his neck looks just as long and swan-like as Yuuri’s did onstage. 

_ You’re Victory Belle; there’s no one who’s better than you. There can’t be. _

But he’ll go to the Poodle again tomorrow. Just to be sure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set list for the routines:
> 
> Leo aka Bae's Clef: "Ducktails Theme"
> 
> Yuuko aka Girl Friday: "Woman" by Kesha
> 
> JJ aka... JJ: "Theme of King JJ"
> 
> Seung-gil aka Alma Vivo: "Makin' Whoopee" by Marlene Dietrich
> 
> Yuuri aka Eros: "Automatic" by Big Data (ft. Jenn Wassner)

**Author's Note:**

> +LittleLostStar is [iwritevictuuri on tumblr](http://iwritevictuuri.tumblr.com)  
> +spookyfoot is [ katsukiyuuristrophyhusband on tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com)


End file.
